Sitting on the Sidelines
by SpikeQueen
Summary: Hermione has had enough. Not that she can do much about it. Hermione's thoughts throughout her seven years at Hogwarts, being friends with Ron and Harry, and keeping her experiences to herself. Warning: Not Ron-bashing, but not Ron-friendly either.


**A/N: Just a different take on an interesting character of a great series. Don't read if you don't like the idea or the subtle commentary I've introduced; appropriate warnings are in the summary. I'd appreciate any reviews! I know I haven't posted anything in years, but that doesn't mean I've stopped writing. I just know Hermione is a character that so many people identified with, and I felt like there were so many moments where she could have been more upset, but she upheld her strength, because everyone needs her. Let me know how you feel, always interested in different opinions. You're free to have your own.**

 **Again, please review if you can/have the time! Always open to constructive criticism, or even just if you liked it or not. It helps with my writing styles and can be a great self-esteem booster. It would definitely make my day, as it would any writer.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the original series, nor do I own its characters, plots, and lines taken from the books/movies.**

Her life was not a storybook.

No matter how much she liked them, and wanted to act as the characters within them, it was not set in stone.

People over the centuries would make the analogy that "life was a book", each new stage simply a new chapter.

That was all well and good, but did they ever consider the implications when reaching the book's end?

If she wasn't the character who died, then she would be the one would live happily ever after, swept away in the throes of a romance to last ages. Everything would fall into place after the climax. The boy would get the girl, the villain defeated, and there were no other impending problems that would take place within her life, ever. It was all over now. Her purpose was complete.

Now that she thought about it, Hermione could see the moment where some brilliant author had cracked open an empty notebook and scribbled in some words that would change lives forever. She meant nothing beyond the few years of her life that the author chose to inscribe.

It all started on that first September day, when she was nearing the age of 12, all too excited by the prospect of _magic_.

 _It is going to be the most wonderful thing I'll ever experience_ , she'd thought, _this is the fabric of every fantasy novel I've read_.

She wasn't wrong. For once, however, she wished fate wasn't the essential embodiment of a genie, taking your simplistic wish and twisting it into the most twisted thing one could imagine. Or, more accurately, the most twisted thing that one couldn't imagine, because it had a way of ripping out the purely innocent sentiment and placing underlying doubts there in its stead.

Was that how fate worked? Did it alternate between a day job as a lawyer and a night job of the judge at the stand? Did it pick apart every word you'd said, and every thought you'd had, and make you regret their exact composition? Did it decide when it needed to hear no more and bring the gavel down on its final decision?

She'd walked onto that train bubbling with enthusiasm and pride that _she_ had been so lucky to be chosen by the world as a witch. And yes, perhaps that ideal held the vestiges of selfishness and unreasonable complacence, but everyone had their flaws.

Hermione had read all that she could about this world. What would anyone else do, really? Well, anyone that bothered putting their neurons and the synapses between them to good use. She was new to this. She knew there were people who were half-bloods and purebloods (and where did that end, really? The mechanics of bloodlines were so strange; wouldn't there exist quarter-bloods as well?) and they would all be so much ahead of her. She couldn't let herself be dragged behind because she wasn't born into it. She had to read every word she could. She couldn't embarrass herself.

Apparently, her personality did not receive this memo.

After that boy, Neville, has looked so panicked and fretful, on the verge of tears, she had opted to help him, because why not? Might as well do a good deed and make a friend of it.

And then her moment came.

She knocked on a door to a compartment and opened it brusquely without bothering to hear any protest. It was too early to be changing, anyway, and it would save time.

"Excuse me, but have any of you seen a frog? A boy named Neville's lost his."

The boy with the glasses stuttered out a negative response while the red-headed one seemed to merely be gaping at her like he couldn't close his mouth.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, but her memory picked out the vague characteristics on the other boy's face, quickly identifying him as Harry Potter.

After a quick fiasco involving the ginger trying (and failing miserably) to perform magic on a rat like he could outwit her, she introduced herself. She supposed she might have come off a bit strong, but really, what would anyone else have been like if they had come into a boy who'd defied magic, of all things? Magic itself defied physics and any set of human logics, but meeting someone who could bend even those rules…nothing satisfied her more than learning, and what better to add to her repertoire of information?

That was where it officially begun. Her life started there. Anything else she'd done beforehand would not ever matter.

* * *

In her first year, she tried to delude herself. She would walk around, spouting facts about Hogwarts to anyone who would or wouldn't listen. Was that her fault? She didn't know excitement was to be frowned upon. She thought she'd have the right, given the fact that nearly everything she'd learned about science was wrong. She didn't want to give off the impression that she knew more than they did (even though she was slowly coming to realize that it was true); she was honestly just attempting to share whichever pieces of knowledge she could impart. She wanted to talk to someone about how amazing this concept was; how the displays of magical devices were utterly resplendent, how the castle seemed to have a mind of its own, how the spells originated from Latin roots and she wondered if she could invent some more based on that reasoning – it was a whole new universe, and it amazed her that people could take it in nonchalantly and sit down, waiting for _food_ of all things.

Classes were exciting, even theory. That was how you learned how things worked, right?

They were fun for _her_. It was funny how when circumstances changed, some opinions never would. She was still the bookworm.

 _How could they overlook something so wonderful?_

Hermione would often ruminate about them, but she would never simply ruminate about her theories and what she picked up. Some other people must surely want to know.

So when she was in her Charms class, she wanted to help. She knew she sounded a bit uptight, but the redhead had honestly been waving his arm around like he was having a conniption fit.

"Stop, stop, stop! You're going to take someone's eye out! Besides, you're saying it wrong, it's _Levi-o-sa_ , not _Levio-sa_!"

"Well why don't you try it, then?" he exclaimed, indignant.

Hermione simply looked at him knowingly, and did just that, to the praise of her teacher and envy of her classmates.

She couldn't help that, could she? It was no secret how she'd done it, she'd told that boy (Ron, was it?) exactly where he went wrong, and she didn't see why he couldn't try it out and get it right now.

Apparently, no matter how expedient her advice was, it was still utterly and irrevocably _annoying_ , by that idiot's terms.

"Did you hear her? It's _Levi-o-sa_ , not _Levio-sa_!" he mimicked shrilly, leaving no question of the cruel bite behind his words.

" _No wonder she hasn't got any friends_."

What gave him the right to say that, to be that malicious? And to not only spout it out to himself, or to Harry, in the privacy of their chambers, but in public, where everyone was listening, and let the commentary be pervasive?

As she bumped his shoulder to let him know she had heard, she only let the tears fall when she heard his uncomfortable response to Harry's "I think she heard you."

So he was of _that_ sort. The unfortunate, hapless side of civilization that couldn't get over his pride to apologize. Ron would never apologize, she knew. Even if he knew he was wrong. She could swallow her conceit where it mattered, if she was proved wrong, but Ron would never do so.

So when the troll came into the bathroom, and she stood there screaming - utterly useless - she could recognize that she should thank the two boys for their efforts, and cover for them as well. She knew telling the truth was not a bad option either – after all, they came to rescue her – but she knew Professor McGonagall would first take away points for not following a direct order.

After that, she supposed she should have gotten used to it. She may have apologized for her 'stuffy' behaviour right then, but there was no return sentiment. No apology for anything they might have said or felt earlier. And it might have been simply wiping away the slate, letting all past incidents be forgotten, but it was never that simple, was it? She would never forget how their friendship started, all based on a _fluke_ , that they might have very well gone on thinking so poorly of her for all these years.

The rest of the year, she supposed, was better. She got her due recognition from Dumbledore, and she was not a person to be shunted off to the side. She mattered. She would get to decide what happened to her. People saw how intelligent and perspicacious she could be in times of trouble.

* * *

Her second year wasn't much better.

 _It was just a coincidence,_ she thought. _It'll get better the year after_.

This year, she got a taste of true contention. Again, it was defined by a mere few moments.

She was called something that she, for once, had no idea how to respond to.

She saw how angered Ron and the Quidditch team had become on her behalf, and for a moment she thought, _So that red-headed idiot really has gotten over his pride_ , but she should have known it wouldn't last.

Looking back on it, and maybe it was just her cynicism, she postulated that it was the same, straightforward offence that the Quidditch team took at the word that Ron had felt as well. The Quidditch team didn't know her, but they defended her, because it was their _stance_. It was an archaic pureblooded way of thinking, and they wanted to make sure that it was understood that they weren't racist in that regard. Ron's family had been brought up that way as well.

At any rate, it didn't matter to her much. _Mudblood?_

It wasn't much, merely two common words strung together. That bratty Malfoy child might have thought it would have an effect on her even if she learned what it meant afterward, but she supposed that was the kind of thinking that came with a spoiled, pretentious background where everyone acted how you wanted them to act. He may as well have called her something in a different language (and for all that she knew, he had), because she didn't understand the insinuation until much later.

And when she did, she laughed internally. He had already made it clear how he felt about Muggleborns. Why should she care about a new 'offensive' term? It was like having someone swear at you in another language, and learning the English translation. You might feel somewhat offended at the translation, but in the end, it doesn't corroborate anything new. His opinion was still entirely baseless and idiotic, and given her competence with magic, the worst that the blond brat could do was tell his father about this, as he'd always threatened.

But even if that was how she felt, her life went in that storybook direction again. Ron and Harry were quick to console her as though they had defended her fragile honour (Ron did especially well in that regard, spitting up slugs). So she figured she'd act as though they had done something worthy of note, because it seemed important enough to them that they protect their friends.

She soon realized that this was the kind of sacrifice that let her choices for what she could say or do steadily dwindle.

Then there was later in the year, when she made Polyjuice Potion (oh, Merlin, that had gone horribly wrong for her). Another moment.

Harry told her about the conversation later, hesitant about that one part that he felt she would get upset about.

 _Well, he wasn't wrong there,_ she mused. It hurt, definitely, to have someone hate her very existence enough to the point where they wished death upon her, but Malfoy was just like the plethora of people who existed in the Muggle world. If she had a darker skin tone, or if her romantic inclinations were to her own gender, she would be subject to this kind of loathing all the same. Any words said against her because of her lineage was merely baseless hatred.

Harry seemed to be under the impression, as many others were, that she would be very maudlin about this. It was sweet, really, this level of concern, but she was never one for schmaltz, despite what her supposed character development seemed to entail. It would take a miracle to change Malfoy's position, and she would have to resign herself to this idea – that was what You-Know-Who was all about, right?

Other than these few moments, and the few moments of anxiety she held for Harry's well-being, she remembered very little of this year. Not that it mattered. She'd found the necessary information for Harry to swoop in as the resident hero, yet again. She'd played her part.

* * *

Her third year was when she began to seriously consider the idea that she was going to be stuck with the abysmal decisions that other people set out for her to choose.

It did not get off to a great start at all, with the train ride quite literally sucking all happiness she had from her. Dementors were honestly the terrifying things she'd imagined in her nightmares.

However, there was always the fact that she had a Time Turner (and honestly, she wanted to squeal with joy every time she thought about the fact that she could _travel through time_ and -) and that was probably the highlight, even though she knew she would be laughed at more than usual when her friends found out she was using it to take more classes. What was wrong with that, anyway? She was using it to learn more about magic.

Once more there were the struggles, and they were more aggravating than ever.

Sirius Black is on the loose, and the boys nearly wet their pants in excitement over a bloody broomstick.

Hermione was not an idiot. Far from it, she'd like to think. So when Harry receives what she recognizes as the best broomstick on the market, with no notice of who sent it, knowing that Harry has little other friends (speaking candidly), and knowing that no ordinary _friend_ would send him this, excuse her skepticism. A dangerous criminal was out to get her friend, and this package seemed a little too convenient. Did Harry honestly not remember the jinxed broomstick in his first year? Was he dropped on his head as a child or was he just that susceptible to having something he wanted given to him?

And who was Ron to interfere? This was Harry's life at stake! She understood his excitement, particularly when given his background, but how could their skulls be so thick as to overlook such important details?

So when Hermione told (read: tattled, in _their_ terms) Professor McGonagall her concerns, she couldn't believe the fury they were emitting. Were they serious? She was just checking for jinxes! It would be given back to Harry once it was determined safe! What reasonable-minded people would be upset – oh, but of course, it involved the word 'reasonable', and she could see from any given action they had performed in the past that Harry and Ron were so utterly _unconscionable_ in their decisions sometimes, especially Ronald. His words had always been exactingly vicious.

Later, she was rudely accused of her cat eating his rat. She didn't believe that was true (she'd trained Crookshanks well), but she didn't understand his brutality even if he did. It was a cat, whose actions in no way reflected hers. Of course, it was saddening, and she would definitely apologize if Ron had legitimate _proof_ , but all she had were the whiny cries of an annoying thirteen-year-old, and it was all hearsay.

She didn't want them to know, but she cried a lot when her only (quasi-) friends ignored her.

(Words hurt.)

And as it turned out, she was right.

 _As always_ , she added mentally.

When Ron's rat was discovered alive, she made the mistake of pointing this out to both of them, even going so far as to _ever-so-rudely_ demand an apology. Merlin knew she _clearly_ didn't deserve one; after all _she_ put _them_ through.

"You're right. Oh, I'm sorry, Crookshanks."

Hermione wanted to cry and scream at the same time, and maybe pull her hair out (or preferably, his). Was it physically possible for him to get over himself, and grow up?

 _At least he finally recognized that it was her cat's actions_ , she thought bitterly.

She didn't want to admit she felt a bit of vindictive pleasure at his immediate removal from the scene by a big, black dog gripping his leg in its maw. That would be sadistic, and she was never one to give in to the lovely arts of schadenfreude. Of course, the shock on his face was something she enjoyed for nary a moment, before immediate guilt, concern, and panic hit her. The sentiments she wondered were ever truly felt for her, when she was in danger.

After her entire time-adventure – the only time as of yet she felt _truly_ in charge, the main character – she was back in the same situation.

They pretended third year was a delight, each moment utter elation – especially after the discovery of Harry's godfather.

Hermione's choice was made for her: she needed friends, because who else would bear to stand her?

She apologized. Harry made some show of his regret.

Ron looked confused, and did nothing but revel in the joy. Everything had passed, yes?

No surprise there.

* * *

Hermione's fourth year was when her bitterness began to reach new levels. She'd had some dirt thrown her way in previous times, but this was utterly disgusting. She'd had little to no support the entire year, and the tiny amount she did have came from a stranger. Everyone else condemned her to her rightful place, as the grime sticking to the soles of their shoes.

There was really no place to start. Any point at all within the year would have given her indigestion just thinking about it.

The TriWizard Tournament was a prestigious honour to win. She'd nearly laughed at Ron's excitement. She knew Ron had good intentions at heart, but his ways of reaching them were so roundabout and misleading.

But when Harry's name was picked, Hermione was concerned for her friend. Any moron could see he had not put his name in himself. Which made sense, now that she thought about it, for Ron had not seen it at all. Some people were just so focused on their personal insecurities and goals, on their problems, that they could not deign to understand that other people had different worries.

Harry had had enough attention. He knew it, she knew it. But Ron didn't. So there she was, playing messenger, with Ron mad at her for not shunning Harry completely.

Did his jealousy overreach so much that he could not even be worried for his friend?

The first task came and went. Personally, Hermione did not understand the nature of their reconciliation. Ron claimed Harry could not have put his name in after seeing the dangerous nature of the tournament. But Harry had no idea how difficult it would be, nor did anyone else. For all anyone knew, Harry was surprised too. And he was!

But Hermione was tired, so she didn't point this out. This seemed to become a habit.

Christmas was worse. Her favourite holiday, a time of cheer and carols and chocolate turned into a mess before, during, and after, all thanks to _him_.

Her time in the library was so rudely interrupted by one Viktor Krum, but he turned out a delight. Of course, his initial staring was quite creepy, and she'd told him so. She'd never been one to hide her thoughts.

To her surprise, he apologized profusely. He'd meant no harm, he'd said, she was beautiful, and he's never been told what was right. Of course he hadn't, he was international. Who would dare bring such disgrace to his name?

She was happy with him. Contrary to everyone's belief in later years, Ron was not her first love (he was, in fact, not any of her loves) – it was Viktor. It was easy to get swept up in the appreciation that Harry and Ron never seemed to show her. She felt wanted, and it felt good.

It did not take long for this to go wrong.

Ron's method of asking her, as though he were _ashamed_ , forced, as a result of taking too long to figure out which girl was worthy of his attentions, was utterly terrible. Then, outright disbelief as he laughed – laughed at her! – when she told him she had been asked. She understood the age-old, storybook cliché of pulling pigtails. But this was not pulling pigtails. This was _mean_. It was demeaning, evoking self-doubt, and she couldn't believe everyone thought her to be enamoured with him. At least she knew the truth now, it couldn't get worse.

It got worse.

"- _fraternizing_ with the enemy!"

"-just using you-"

"-what other reason could he have?"

She knew, on some level, that this was jealousy on his part. She knew, on other levels, that no amount of jealousy, dislike, or revenge on a person should include such hits to their self-esteem. Ron may have thought the consequences were only her anger (or maybe, on a delusional scale, her regret), but these were the kinds of words that would stick with her throughout any relationships in the future she maintained.

Harry had looked at her awkwardly and left. Never mind all the times she stuck with him, or defended him. He didn't even give her a consoling pat as she held back tears. She knew this wasn't fair: it was not his fault. But the irrational sense of knowing she was the third wheel in their friendship took its toll on her sometimes. While Ron, who was undoubtedly wrong, got his comfort, Hermione got the cold stairs beneath her feet.

And she would have to apologize. And she did. Because it was making things awkward for Harry. The plot needed to advance, and she wasn't the main character here. She would never be.

(Being the bigger person hurt.)

What did she get for helping Harry, but accepting an invitation from Krum?

What a harlot she was. She'd never forget that bullying was still eminent, if not more so, in the wizarding world – even from teachers. She had her smile to thank for that.

(It felt like cheating. She'd never come to terms with her teeth: she changed it.)

The second event was symbolic. Harry saved Ron (where was the Golden Trio now?) and she was saved by someone she met only a few months earlier. Didn't that say a lot.

The rest of the year passed in stranger events. Harry did the rescuing, she did the information-seeking. Not like that was important.

The outbursts of jealousy from Ron were restrained, especially after Viktor left. She would never admit it to anyone, but she cried. It was hard, knowing someone _not_ from her family truly cared for her – and then he was gone. Oh, they kept in touch, but it was like her friendships from her Muggle friends before she went to Hogwarts.

It was there, and then it was gone. Gradually, slowly, so you'd never notice the transition.

The year ended on a terrible note. It was sad, what Cedric's death meant, but she couldn't be sad. What did she know about the whole situation anyway? She was never there.

* * *

Her fifth year: she was the villain. You might have confused that with her other years, but no, this was where it came to a peak. She was misunderstood. But no one heard her side. She was a side character.

She couldn't contact Harry according to whom she considered the most powerful wizard of her time. She got screamed at.

She was a prefect! She could tell Harry was upset, so she kept her pride to herself for the most part.

Upon arrival at Hogwarts, she hardened her eyes toward the disgustingly pink Ministry woman almost immediately. Harry and Ron didn't listen, despite the fact that it could have been important. This was her role.

Umbridge was terrible. She didn't understand why Harry had such a complex. Dumbledore would put a stop to it right away if it came to notice that she used Blood Quills.

(Sometimes, in her most selfish, annoyed moments, she'd thought it was so he'd be pitied by her and Ron, at least.)

The year passed uneventfully, except for the occasional vicious comment about her studying regime for the OWLs and Harry's panic attacks. Her concern grew for Harry, but she didn't know why everyone assumed it was impossible, it was terrible to worry about something as _trivial_ as exams when he was in trouble. She could worry about two things at once. And it was her culture, her Muggle culture. Without good grades, how could she get a job and sustain herself? It was what she'd always been taught. Why was it being made fun of? Didn't other Muggleborns or Muggle-raised understand?

Aside from that, she'd decided to get Dumbledore's Army started. As nice as it was for Harry to try and give her the credit, she'd accepted right away that no matter what she did, it would be seen as _Harry's_ group. For once, she didn't mind. He was, in fact, better at Defense Against the Dark Arts. He'd been raised into it.

The year went on, mostly only with social drama, thank Merlin. She was villainized, again and again, whether something as petty as confiscating Fred and George's products (it was against the rules, what could she do?) or saying something to upset the apparently delicate psyches of her friends. So what if she was blunt? She'd thought they'd gotten used to it.

Everything hit the fan with Sirius.

Hermione was suspicious from the moment Harry suggested Sirius was trapped. It didn't make any sense. Sirius never left his house. Why would he? He was reckless, but not stupid.

She spoke her mind, and she received caustic, abusive words in return. It was unsurprising this time. No matter how many times it turned out she was right. She was used to it.

Harry checked, but she knew it was hasty. He didn't believe in double-checking.

So they went. And everyone almost died.

They walked into that aisle of shelves stacked with prophecies and saw nothing. Harry turned to her, muttering some angry comment about how she was right to assume they were banking on his love of playing the hero, and she knew it was mostly directed at himself. But she couldn't help but take it personally too. Like he blamed her for not convincing him. It was her fault, after all. She was the smart one. She was the one to come up with plans. She was the side character who provided the deus ex machinas.

And they fought. Through the adrenaline rush, she was stupid enough to assume it was over, and she got hit. She didn't have to witness the pain that came mere moments later.

(She was glad. For once, no one looked to her for ideas.)

When she woke up, there was no time to reminisce on how she was feeling. Harry was in crisis, his godfather died. This time, she knew she was a terrible person, being terribly selfish. Harry was devastated, his last connection to family destroyed. Here she was wanting to be looked over, cared for, like it was expected (…that her family would be there?).

(One mention of concern would have been nice.)

So she stepped into her shoes, and listened to Harry's anguish, and she didn't mind, because she had to compare her sadness with his and rule his greater. Really. What was there for her to complain about?

* * *

Her sixth year was plagued with the worst feelings yet: drama. It was all power-plays and struggles of jealousy, and she knew it was wrong, but she yearned for a bit of danger to take her mind off of everything.

There wasn't much to say.

Malfoy was probably a death eater. She thought it was a stretch at first, but following that strange encounter in Knockturn Alley and his skittish behaviour all year, she didn't find it too hard to believe.

But she didn't look into it. She grew lax in her inevitable research duties.

Harry grew fond of Ginny after her disagreements with Dean, Ron struggled not to disapprove. Lavender was interested in Ron, and took great pleasure in kissing him in every location possible. She liked him and he liked her and this person liked that person but they didn't like the same person back and –

Teenager drama. She couldn't believe they though her fretting over exams were trivial when they valued this.

And she was not jealous of Ron. Ron had, from the moment they met, put her down over nearly everything. He wasn't a bad person (though she was loath to admit it, even to herself), but not right for her. She'd had enough of being the only person to apologize, of being insulted because of his constipated envy, of being used for her intelligence and told to sit there waiting for him.

Perhaps there were some moments, at the beginning, when she thought there could be more, it was just teasing. That changed the moment he affected her self-esteem. That kind of relationship was not healthy for her.

So when she made vocal her dislike of Lavender, it wasn't because of Ron. She could dislike someone without it concerning anyone else. She was capable of separating her feelings. She didn't think Lavender was a tart because she was dating Ron. Hermione though she was a tart anyway, constantly looking for attention and showing off in her face as though to make Hermione upset.

Lavender was not a bad person either, but sometimes it was hard to remember these things. She shared a dorm with that girl for years and the most she had to offer were beauty tips that Hermione didn't want, or need, along with an unwarranted opinion of her social life. No one else seemed to think Hermione could dislike Lavender of her own accord. It had to be because of Ron, it was so obvious! Hermione sometimes wondered how thick a person's skull could be.

So there was that, and she knew at some point she would have to awkwardly explain these things to Ron, but she was putting it off: not because it was painful, but because the only painful part would be trying to get Ron to understand.

(She sensed a lot of "leading people on" and other such arguments in her near future.)

In the meantime, she fended off advances from Cormac McLaggen, who, while attractive, was also a prat. He seemed to be expecting her to blush every time she saw him, or fall into his arms like a dainty damsel in distress, and she'd had enough of being placed at both ends of the sprectrum – not a girl, or too much of a girl.

Harry nearly split his head open over his paranoia, and she tried to calm him, as the dutiful friend. She gave him advice about Ginny, convinced him to ignore Ron, told him Luna was a lovely choice for Slughorn's party, advised him against the effects of the Half-Blood Prince's notes, and all-around made sure he was alright, mentally.

(Where was the return in favour?)

It culminated in an incident that affected Hermione personally. Harry was right, it was Malfoy, and he let Death Eaters in.

Dumbledore was dead, and Snape killed him.

She wanted to cry, but she'd save that for the funeral.

There went a wonderful wizard, unprejudiced and kind and logical and always calm. He'd recognized her, treated her as though she was special, looking at her with a twinkle in his eye and knowing when she was upset.

She let the sadness wash over her at his solemn memorial.

Harry almost left without her and Ron. She'd wanted to scream, how could he think he was the only one feeling so much pain right now? Why did he think it was his duty? Yes, Voldemort had killed his parents, but he hated Muggles and Muggle-borns. He'd caused so much death and pain for people she cared about. He brought shame to be associated with her name, and ruined the roots of her Muggle culture, and made her unhealthily worried about her parents. She had a right to fight.

But she kept quiet. It wasn't her turn to talk. When had it been?

* * *

Her seventh year could not even qualify as a year. It was a series of jumbled events, leading to different torrents of emotional pain, and, most notably, she was not at Hogwarts.

She took her parents' memory. She still cried at night sometimes, making sure no one could hear her, but she didn't think it mattered. After this revelation, no one had bothered to ask.

She was still with her friends, albeit her sometimes insensitive, prattish friends.

She'd run ragged from the wedding, dodging spells from the Death Eaters at one of her favourite cafes.

(How many times would she see the places she'd loved burn?)

They were safe at Grimmauld Place for some time; they'd found Kreacher and despite his betrayal, she'd convinced Harry and Ron that he could help. And he did.

(They'd listened for once!)

Astonishing idea, that she was right yet again.

But then they were in danger. They'd disguised themselves to infiltrate the Ministry and take the Horcrux, and they'd managed, but they knew Grimmauld Place was compromised.

She took them to yet another location, the lovely Forest of Dean. Sometimes she liked to think of the happy memories of camping she had with her family, instead of the disappointing ones that ensued. They took turns wearing the locket, but Ron became more vicious than ever. She almost felt threatened. His jealousy was not normal. She could tell he was envious of her and Harry, and despite the idea that it would never happen, she wanted to scream yet again.

It was ironic: he'd considered her having affections for another, but never the idea that she'd just never held affections for him, that there was no one else in the question.

But when he'd tried to leave, she dropped whatever remained of her dignity. She'd cried and begged. Ron was many things, but he was also a friend. He was cruel at many points, childish at others, and she could not stand him half the time, but he was vital to their quest. He was vital to provide much-needed male company for Harry. He was needed for humour and to lighten them up at inappropriate times. Two made things more difficult than three.

Then he left. And she was done. Under the influence of the locket, there was nearly no change in her behaviour. Nothing to this degree. And she knew the locket instigated it, but having it around her neck, she knew it could not force you to think things. It simply slipped previous thoughts in a certain direction. So Ron had the capability to leave her at her weakest, and then her indifference was decided. He was a friend, sure, but not one she could say was close. She could never tell him anything and hope that it wouldn't be taken the wrong way, or truly be comfortable in his presence.

This was her teetering moment on the iceberg, and it had sunk.

She and Harry went to Godric's Hollow, and she comforted him at his parents' graves. For once, she was proud to say she felt something shift, she felt the closeness between them. It was astounding how different a boy could be, on his own. In front of his friends, it was all jokes and trying to impress each other. But here she felt his appreciation, his warmth against her, and she knew he had substance underneath.

Ron came back. The closeness would be missed.

They came back with the Sword, they could destroy Horcruxes, and they did. Harry's smile held suspicious connotations, and she wondered what challenge it presented Ron while he destroyed it.

Then they were captured, and she was tortured. In those painful, humiliating moments on the floor, she couldn't think or breathe. When it stopped, and she was tossed into Ron's arms, she scrabbled for whatever substance she could feel and they were Apparated away. She released him almost immediately upon arrival, instead cradling their saviour, the brave Dobby.

She should have been shamed to think that Dobby was important to her right now.

Not long after, they snuck into Hogwarts, and the great Battle of Hogwarts had begun.

There were flashes of light everywhere, bodies lying upon the stone cold floor, littering the Forest with blood, brightening the skies with death.

Harry thought he had to die. He did die.

Hermione struggled to hold back the sobs. Harry was _wonderful_ , and she was so selfish, and she should have been proud to be his side character, because he was worthy of that honour.

Harry wasn't dead.

Harry left to duel Voldemort, and Ron and Hermione destroyed the Horcrux in the Chamber of Secrets, almost being destroyed by Nagini before Neville saved them. You would think she would sympathize, brought closer to Ron, but looking at his terrified eyes and dying alongside with him, she felt kinship at best, that at least he was brave to fight, even if he was not brave in nearly every other category.

Harry defeated Voldemort.

Ron tried to kiss her. She moved back and looked at him, hoping to convey it all. All she saw was confusion in his eyes. After stumbling over her words, trying to justify her thoughts over the years to him, he looked crushed.

(Did she even feel bad?)

Then he looked angry, spouting words and phrases that were oddly similar to the ones she'd thought he'd say in Year 6 – "leading me on" – "playing with my feelings" – "bet you're enjoying this" – "thought one final joke would set us right on even ground after I left you" – "but you _cried"_ – "LIAR!"

Harry seemed to get it. She appreciated that, even if she didn't always appreciate him.

So she was a side character. Her story wouldn't be continued in an epilogue. It would be Harry's life with Ginny and his children that would follow, Ron and the infamous Weasley family too. She would restore her parents' memory and live alone, quite happily. She hadn't fulfilled the full stereotype. She was happy for that.

But she knew she was done. No one would look at her as the Brightest Witch Of Her Age anymore. It wasn't about her anymore, the fans would follow Harry, grab at the vestiges of fame and power and greatness he left behind, lapping it up like eager puppies. She would be left on the sidelines, forgotten, even when in contact with Harry. There were only a few pages left of her story. Sometimes Hermione wished there was more.

Was that too much?


End file.
